


The scarecrow

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Disguise, Gen, Hurt, Scarecrows, THRUSH, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29155041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya is typecast when it comes to disguise, but this disguise produces phobias.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	The scarecrow

Overlooking a landscape of arable crops, surrounded by a low stone wall, the big house with its garden and outhouses lay conveniently isolated for any owner suffering from paranoia who could easily spot anyone or anything approaching it from any direction.

Just such an observer had spotted the farmer who owned the fields around the house driving his pickup into the nearest field. He saw him drag a pole with a cross piece out of the van and drive it into the ground. It seemed he was going to install a scarecrow. Not before time, the observer thought – flocks of birds had long occupied the field. He wondered how anyone made any money at that game.

The scarecrow he lifted out of the truck ought to do a good job – from what the observer could see of its detail, it appeared curiously lifelike, padded with straw and fully clothed, including boots, hat and gloves. The farmer tied it to the post, returned to his vehicle and drove away.

“Do you want coffee?” someone called.

The observer left the window and returned to the kitchen.

“Anything happening?”

“Nah,” said the observer.

“Good. The boys’ll be here later, so you’d better keep watching.”

“What are you going to be doing?” the observer wanted to know. He’d had enough of watching fields of ripening wheat and barley waving in the wind.

“Everything else,” his companion snapped.

<><>

“I suppose there’s no point in asking why it’s got to be me in disguise?”

“You’re a shoe-in, Illya. It’s what comes of being stereotyped.” Napoleon ducked as Illya’s shoe flew past his ear. “Missed,” he said and received one of Illya’s socks in his face.

Illya pulled on thick knitted stockings and straw-padded pants. “I guess these will keep me warm, at least,” he said grudgingly and wriggled as some sharp straw in the coat penetrated his flannel shirt and pricked his back. He sat down extremely carefully and Napoleon picked up sticks of greasepaint and daubed white generously over Illya’s face, outlining his eyes in red and smearing black over his mouth, before crowning him with straw and a battered hat. The red round his eyes and the black grimace over his mouth gave him a truly alarming appearance.

“What’s a fear of scarecrows called?” he said.

“Formidophobia,” said Illya.

“How d’you know that?”

“I looked it up earlier.”

“Well, you’d give anyone the horrors – want to see?” Napoleon held up a mirror for Illya to contemplate his transformation. He stared at himself in silence.

“Do people shoot at scarecrows?” he enquired.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Napoleon.

“Hm. You did say stereotyped, didn’t you? Can I have a bullet-proof vest?”

“Too late, there isn’t time. It’ll be fine – you’re only going to watch and report – and it’ll be dark soon. Here, tuck your communicator into the straw in your top pocket. It’ll have to remain open once you’re in position.”

<><>

Evening was drawing in: twilight, when the sky is still light but the landscape dark, and distances are more difficult to judge. The observer turning from one window to another to look out at the field was sure the scarecrow was closer and chided himself for a superstitious fool. The farmer hadn’t come back: the scarecrow couldn’t have moved. But he shivered a little at the thought; scarecrows gave him the creeps. He still shuddered at an old memory when he had taken a footpath across a field at night…

Then the road lit up, and over the brow of the hill came a vehicle. He went to the door and called down, “They’re coming,” before descending the stairs.

The truck and the load it was pulling stopped in the yard and the occupants of the house came out to greet the driver and his mate who both wore grey-green uniform with the bird symbol on the shoulder. They raised a hand to their colleagues and moved round the trailer to undo the ropes binding the tarpaulin covering their load. When they pulled it off, it revealed the barrel of a long-distance gun.

<><>

Unhitching the scarecrow in the near darkness, Illya uprooted the pole carefully and moved closer to the house, where he pushed the pole a little way into the ground and hitched his arms over the cross piece. Only minutes later, the lights of a truck with a low-loader lit up the scene and as it passed one of its occupants looked out at him.

In whispered tones, Illya reported on the happenings in the yard into his communicator. The backup team were lying behind the hedge in the next field, having taken advantage of the dark to approach. He saw the driver’s mate gesturing towards himself. “They don’t like the look of me,” he said quickly and heard a suppressed chuckle, from Napoleon, he had no doubt. There was a pause then they heard him say, “Someone’s coming.”

“We’re right here. Stay still.”

“How long has that scarecrow been there?”

“Where’s Eric? He’s the lookout – he’ll know. Eric!”

“The farmer put it there this morning,” said Eric.

“Why today?”

Eric shrugged. “Lot of birds in that field eating his crop, I guess.”

“Go check it out.”

“Why me?” said Eric.

“Just do it.”

He walked across the yard, out into the lane to the gate, and reluctantly made his way through the stalks of wheat. The scarecrow hung limp, its head down, but the light from his torch lit the face with its blank red eyes, and its lopsided black mouth leered at him. Repelled, he turned away and as he did so, there was a rustle of straw. He turned back and found the scarecrow right behind him, its hideous face now grinning horribly at him. He made a little noise in his throat and turned to run but a prickly arm around his neck caught him and swung him round.

Hampered by the straw padding, Illya was hardly at his best for fighting and Eric was armed. The backup team were too far across the field to get to them before Eric managed to get a hand to his gun. There was a brief, breathless struggle, the gun went off and the scarecrow flopped to the ground.

The sound of a shot startled everyone and Eric ran for the gate where he met fellow Thrush men. “The scarecrow attacked me,” he gasped. “I think I’ve killed him.”

They brushed past him, trampling the crop as they made for the pole that had supported the scarecrow. It was lying at its foot, face down and still.

They heaved at it expecting a heavy weight. It flew up between them and landed at their feet. “It’s an effing scarecrow…,” someone said in disgust. “He’s shot a scarecrow. What’s the matter with you, you damned fool, afraid of your own shadow?”

Eric’s employment with Thrush looked like terminating sooner than he would have preferred. Marched back to the house, he protested all the way that it had been alive, it had attacked him, he had shot it, but they just jeered at him.

“It’s a straw man, you dummy! We even put it back so it can frighten other little birds.”

They crossed the yard and took him into the house leaving the truck and its trailer in darkness. Everyone had been involved in the excitement of the last few minutes and for the moment the gun remained unguarded.

A strange ungainly creature, white-faced and evil of countenance, now limped across the yard. Dark figures followed it, moving carefully and quietly, and concealed themselves behind the gun out of sight of the house. The apparition lay down, wriggled with difficulty under the trailer and held out an imperious hand for tools. When it had finished what it had come to do, it dragged itself out and the others helped it to its feet and half carried it away.

<><>

“I didn’t imagine it. It’s true!” Eric was saying hotly. “It jumped down and attacked me. It wasn’t a man of straw. It was a man dressed up. He put an arm round my neck and I tried to fight him off and get to my gun. When I fired, he fell down – so, even if I didn’t kill him, he was hurt.”

“That was a real scarecrow on the ground. Explain that!”

“Yeah. He put it there, didn’t he!”

“So where is he now?”

“How should I know?”

They all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then one said suddenly, “Who’s guarding the gun?”

As they made for the door, it bulged inwards and opened of its own accord as a massive explosion blew it off its hinges, destroying the front of the building and most of the outhouses. The truck, trailer and gun were wrecked – not that even one of the Thrush men was in a position to be troubled by any of it.

<><>

Illya had to be carried away from the scene, the damage to more than his straw-stuffed pants now all too apparent. They took off at a run before the detonators did their job and hunkered down behind a wall, fingers in their ears.

There was satisfyingly loud proof of Illya’s skill, though the dreadful grimace painted on his face better expressed the pain he was experiencing than evidence of pleasure in a job well done.

“Heroic stuff, Illya. Are you okay?” whispered Napoleon.

“I’ll be okay,” Illya affirmed, but added, “but my stuffing is leaking. I hope you brought the first aid kit.”


End file.
